Worse Than Drinking
by jublke
Summary: Sam finds something unexpected in Dean's duffle. Set in Season 7.
1. Chapter 1

Not mine, don't own. If the boys were mine, I would treat them better. Daily pie specials for Dean with an all-you-can-eat salad bar for Sammy, open 24/7.

Cross-posted at _Archive of Our Own_.

* * *

Sam glanced toward the bathroom door and listened to make sure his older brother was still taking a shower. Quietly, he moved toward Dean's side of the room and picked up the other man's duffle. Sam fully expected the bag to feel heavier than usual; Dean's normal level of restless anxiety had recently ratcheted into a persistent, desperate twitchiness. Chasing Dick Roman was clearly weighing heavily on the man. Dean rarely sat still anymore, and, when he did, he usually had a bottle of Jack or Bobby's flask in hand.

Last night, Dean had crept out while Sam was dozing. The younger brother had roused just enough to see Dean lift a smaller bag from his duffle as he snuck out the door. Dean had stayed out most of the night before crawling back in the wee hours of the morning and collapsing in the other bed. Since his brother didn't make much effort to hide his drinking, Sam knew that Dean was stashing something worse inside his duffle - _harder liquor? drugs?_ \- that he didn't want his little brother to know about.

But the duffle's weight didn't feel off. _Maybe Dean's clothes plus a bottle of liquor_ , Sam thought, _minus the weight of the kit bag Dean's currently using_. Sam shook the duffle experimentally. There was an odd clink that he couldn't readily identify. The sound of metal hitting glass?

Sam's stomach lurched. _Why would Dean hide a weapon?_ A vision flashed before Sam's eyes - Dean heading out with the intent of drinking himself into oblivion before attempting self-harm ...

 _Enough of this._ Sam took a deep breath and unzipped Dean's duffle. There was an unfamiliar light blue flannel bag with a zipper top nestled inside, resting on his brother's clothes. Sam blew out the breath he had been holding. _That was too easy_. Picking up the smaller bag, Sam could feel the expected bottle of liquor inside, wrapped in something soft. His curious fingers noticed something else as he turned the bag over in his hands: a small thin weapon was inside, about the length of his hand.

 _What in the world?_

"Hey!" Dean emerged from the bathroom, dripping wet with a towel wrapped around his midsection. He turned a set of furious green eyes on his brother. "What are you doing with my bag?" Dean's voice squeaked over the last two words.

Sam cocked his head at Dean, studying his big brother's reaction. Dean attempted to snatch the bag back with his free hand, but Sam, being taller, simply held it over his head.

"Not until you tell me what's inside." He tried a pleading look. "I'm worried about you, Dean."

"This isn't funny, Sammy," Dean growled. "Now, give it back!"

Sam held his ground, and he watched as his brother paced around him, chewing his lower lip. Normally, Dean would simply tackle him, dressed or not. The bigger problem, Sam realized, was the unknown contents of this bag. If they broke the liquor bottle during their fight, whatever was inside might get ruined. And that, clearly, was the only thing standing between Sam and the floor.

"Not until you tell me what's in here," Sam reiterated, holding the bag aloft.

Dean glared back. "You are such a prissy little bitch." He walked over to Sam's duffle, and began to throw its contents on the motel room floor. Then he stomped on top of Sam's clean T-shirts, grinding them into the filthy carpet. As Sam's face began to twitch, Dean smiled with malice. "Give me my bag, Samantha." He sat his bare ass down inside Sam's duffle.

Sam blinked and twitched some more. _This is important_ , he reminded himself. _I'm trying to save Dean's life here._ Said brother was currently putting on a pair of Sam's underwear, followed by Sam's favorite pair of sweats, and the last clean T-shirt Sam owned. He had a brief flash that perhaps a dead Dean wasn't such a bad thing. Abruptly, he brought the bag he was holding down and unzipped it, dumping its contents on the nearest bed.

His brother leapt for the items, but not before Sam got a good look. A bottle of Jack, mostly full. A sheet of paper with some sort of weird code on it. Three skeins of yarn in shades of green and blue. A half-finished scarf. And a tool that Sam tentatively identified as a crochet hook.

He crinkled his wide brow in confusion. "Dean? What the -"

His brother flushed beet red. Without comment, Dean gathered up the items and put them back in his blue bag.

 _His craft bag_ , Sam realized. _He's been hitting up ... craft stores?!_

Dean held up a hand, his red face lowered. "Dude, I am only saying this once and then we are never speaking of it again." He looked up at the bewildered expression on his younger brother's face. "I ... uh ..." Dean crossed his arms and studied the floor. "Lisa ... she taught me ..."

"You like to crochet." It took every ounce of Sam's self-control not to laugh.

Dean nodded. If possible, he turned even more pink. "With Bobby ... and everything ..." He gave Sam an imploring look.

"It helps you relax?" This time, Sam phrased it like a question.

His brother nodded again. "It ... uh ... it gives my hands something to do. So I don't drink as much." He ventured a glance at Sam, who felt his heart constrict at his brother's raw admission.

"And this scarf?" Sam asked softly.

Dean cleared his throat. "That's ... uh ... it's for you. For Christmas." His brother's eyes dropped back to the floor.

Sam's own eyes were moist. "Dean, I ... I don't know what to say."

Pointing a finger at Sam, Dean replied roughly, "And this, this right here? This is exactly why I never told you." Walking over to his duffle, Dean shoved the blue bag inside, added his kit bag, and zipped the duffle closed.

"Fair enough." Sam nodded. "But Dean, I don't want you to have to hide away in the car or wherever to relax." He took a step toward his brother. "I'm not going to think less of you if I see you crocheting."

Dean cocked an eyebrow at Sam. "You can't even say that without laughing." He rolled his eyes. "C'mon, let's blow this popsicle stand." He hoisted his duffle and moved toward the door.

* * *

Somewhere over on _Archive of Our Own_ , I read a sweet little story in which Cas teaches Dean to knit. Or maybe Dean teaches Cas to knit, I don't remember. Anyway, one of them owns a craft store and it was a cute little story and stuck in my head. Add my own obsession with craft stores and you get this. I couldn't really think of an ending, so this is a one-shot for now.

Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

I thought this was a one-shot, but ArtistKurai asked for more. This chapter is dedicated to her. I promise this will eventually end on a happy, schmoopy note, but Sam drama sort of overtook this chapter. You know Sammy!

My thanks to ArtistKurai, 332249, Samanthawolfe, dreamingnotsleeping, and everyone else who has followed or favorited this story. I have one more chapter planned.

Cross-posted at _Archive of Our Own_.

As always, not mine, don't own. If I owned _Supernatural_ , Dean's secret hobby would be canon. And he'd get a lot more pie. :)

* * *

Sam Winchester studied his big brother's back while he slept - or, more accurately, tossed and flopped in his sleep like a dying fish - and tried to think of what to do. It had been roughly a month since Sam had discovered Dean's little secret: the older Winchester liked to crochet. He had apparently taken up the hobby during his year of domesticity with Lisa Braeden. From what Sam had seen of his brother's handiwork, Dean had real talent. The scarf his brother had begun to crochet for him was a lovely mix of blue, teal, and green, and his rows of stitches were neat and precise. Sam had no doubt that Dean would have simply given him the scarf for Christmas, never once admitting that he had made it himself.

Prior to discovering Dean's crochet hook, Sam had known nothing of his brother's interest in anything domestic, save his fixation with pies and baked goods. _If Dean had confessed to a latent desire to bake_ , Sam mused, _I wouldn't have even batted an eye._ But Sam had struggled to keep his mirth in check when he had learned of Dean's little crafting obsession, and he knew that Dean hadn't picked up his crochet hook since.

Sam sighed. Dean was clearly struggling to cope without his secret pastime. Liquor, porn, casual sex - Sam had witnessed an increase in all three since Dean had stopped crocheting. Of course, the stress in their lives had ratcheted up as well. Knowing that Castiel was alive but mentally and emotionally damaged was so hard for both brothers to bear that they rarely spoke of him. Yet, he was on Sam's mind constantly - the knowledge that the angel had given him back his sanity by taking on his own emotional trauma weighed heavily on the mind of the youngest Winchester. And even though Dean didn't speak of it, Sam knew Cas's breakdown tormented his brother as well.

Dean moaned in his sleep, and Sam reached out a hand to comfort him. The brothers were sharing a king-sized bed tonight. Funds were tight and this motel - the only one in town with a vacancy - didn't have any rooms available with two beds.

For once, Sam was glad for the inconvenience. He stroked his brother's shoulder. "Hey, Dean," Sam whispered. "I'm right here. You're safe here."

"S'mmy?" Dean mumbled, but didn't wake up.

"Yeah, bro, it's me. Get some sleep, okay?"

"'kay, S'mmy." His brother sounded all of five years old, and Sam felt his heart clench.

 _Dean deserves better than this_ , Sam thought angrily. _So little in our lives bears any semblance of normal human existence._ _If crocheting makes Dean happy, so what? It doesn't make him any less of a man. Why can't he see that? He deserves whatever peace he can find._

Sam continued to massage Dean's shoulder as he thought about how best to help his brother. _How can I convince Dean that it's okay to crochet around me?_

The early glow of dawn was just seeping around the darkened curtains of their motel room when Sam finally hit upon an idea that might work. He flopped back on the pillow with relief and promptly fell asleep.

* * *

Another day of research about Dick Roman had both men climbing the walls of their shabby motel room. Dick, it seemed, had his Leviathan reach into every sector of society, and there seemed to be no end in sight to the amount of background reading they needed to do to grasp it all.

Sam slammed the laptop closed, rubbed his tired eyes, and sighed. "I need a break, Dean. How about you?"

His brother looked up from where he sat at the small table, surrounded by a stack of mainstream newspapers and a few tabloids. He cocked an eyebrow at Sam and rocked back on the hind legs of his chair. "What'cha got in mind? There's a little bar and grill down the road. Should still be open."

Sam inhaled deeply and forced himself to say the words aloud. _I'm doing this for Dean_ , he reminded himself. "I thought we could run by a craft store. I want to take up painting." As Dean stared at him, nonplussed, Sam continued. "Watercolor." As Dean's eyes widened, Sam dropped his gaze to the filthy tile. Once white, it had now dulled to light grey. The grout was so dirty that it was nearly black.

He heard the chair slam to the floor, and then his brother's voice sounded, rough with unexpressed emotion. "That's not funny, Sam." Dean picked up his flannel overshirt and stalked toward the door.

 _Shit!_ Sam thought. _He thinks I'm teasing him. Damn it._

Sam stood and folded his arms. "I'm not kidding, Dean." He looked over at his brother. Dean stood by the door, keys in hand, wearing a thoroughly annoyed expression. "I took a class at Stanford." Sam closed his eyes. "That's where I met Jess."

Saying her name aloud, even after all of this time, was torture for Sam. He didn't like to remember how they had met, casual smiles as they sat side by side at their easels, because it was a painful reminder of all he had lost. How happy he had been to hold her hand as they walked through a garden on campus on their first date, paintbrushes and pads in hand, to spend a day painting flowers! It had been one of the most amazing experiences of Sam's life. He could relate to Castiel's newfound fixation with bees. If you took the time to slow down and really study the simple things around you, it cleared the mind. And Sam needed that right now. If he was honest with himself, he needed it as much or more than Dean did.

By the time Sam had calmed down enough to open his eyes, he found Dean standing directly in front of him, all sense of his previous anger replaced by a patented big-brother-is-worried expression. Dean's brows lowered and then raised. "You're serious?"

Sam nodded and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. "I feel awful about what happened to Castiel, Dean."

His brother shook his head. "Sam, that's not your fault." Dean's voice was thick with unvoiced pain.

"I know you don't want to talk about it, Dean, but I do. I don't think we should have left him alone with Meg -"

"Sam -"

The younger Winchester held up a hand. "Look, I get it. You don't want to talk. That's why I was thinking of painting. I need to get rid of all this," Sam churned his hands through the air before folding his arms again and looking away. After a few minutes, he continued, softer than before. "I did art therapy a couple of times in the psych ward. You know, before things got really bad with Lucifer. It was the only part of the day that was remotely bearable."

Dean's shoulders slumped at the mention of Sam's dark struggle. His eyes cut to the side as he pondered what Sam had told him. "So," he finally said, "this has nothing to do with you getting me into a craft store?"

Sam frowned at him and wrinkled the space between his eyebrows. "Well, I was hoping you would go in with me. I've haven't been to a craft store since we were kids and I'd feel awkward going alone. I bought all of my supplies at the campus bookstore." He swallowed and looked at the floor again. "My portfolio ... Jess's ... everything burned in the fire." It hurt so much to say the words out loud. He'd never told anyone about this.

Sam didn't realize how close he was to tears until he felt Dean's hand on his shoulder. "We can go now," his brother said, searching out his eyes. "But only if you really want this. I saw a Michaels on the way here."

Sam sniffed and nodded. _I'm doing this for Dean_ , he repeated in his mind, trying to suppress image after image of Jess standing at her easel, smiling up at him.

* * *

The ride to the craft store was quiet, broken only by the sound of Dean's jacket squeaking as he turned at regular intervals to look at Sam. The younger hunter stared straight ahead. Where had everything gone wrong?

It seemed like such a great idea to coax Dean into a craft shop. Catch him off guard, maybe get him to open up about how he felt about crocheting, about life.

Sam snorted. _Yeah, like anything in my life has ever gone according to plan._

"You okay there, Sammy?" _Of course, Dean's worried about me, puts me first. Dean never thinks of himself. And I always come up with some sort of drama to ensure life stays that way._

As Sam sniffed, he fumbled around in the Impala's glove box for a kleenex or napkin. "I'm fine, Dean."

This time, it was Dean who snorted. "Like hell you are." He brought the Impala to a stop under the bright neon lights of Michaels. "We don't have to do this, you know."

Sam sniffed again. "You were right," he admitted. "I wanted to get you in a craft store." As his brother rolled his eyes, Sam forged ahead. "I thought if I picked up a hobby too, maybe you wouldn't feel so self-conscious about yours."

Dean frowned at Sam. "None of that explains why you're this upset."

Sam swallowed, hard. "I really do miss painting, Dean," he said softly. "I never let myself remember because ..."

"It reminds you of Jess," Dean finished for him.

Sam nodded, wiping away a tear that had leaked out despite his best efforts to suppress it. "I'm sorry. I thought I was helping you." He gave his brother a half-smile.

Dean sighed. "Well, we're here now." He studied Sam and chewed his lip. Rubbing his hand down the back of his neck, Dean seemed to come to a decision.

"Lisa and I ..." he began. "We ... um ... we had a similar conversation once. About you, and how I felt about you being in the cage. I couldn't relax with her and Ben. I was always checking the salt lines, up late drinking, sharpening knives ..." Dean shook his head. "I was scaring her. One day, she brought me to a store just like this one and told me to pick a hobby. Any hobby. I thought she was crazy." He smiled, a bit grimly. "We walked through that damn store twice before I finally picked up a knitting needle."

Sam smiled back, tears forgotten. "So, what happened?"

Dean shook his head with a slight roll of the eyes. "She saw right through that. I thought at least I could skewer anyone who caught me touching the things." He grinned at Sam.

"So, you tried crochet instead?" Sam had to know. It wasn't like Dean was going to open up like this again.

Dean nodded. "Same idea, less pointy." He cleared his throat. "Look, I know how you love chick-flick and all, but it's getting late and the store's gonna close. I'm going to tell you what Lisa told me," he said, pointing at Sam. "'Just wander the store and pick something that interests you. You need a non-violent hobby. Don't worry about the money. I can handle it.'"

Sam nodded. "Okay."


	3. Chapter 3

My thanks to everyone who has favorited or followed this story. A special thanks to Alexandria M. R, Kathy, and ArtistKurai for your comments on the last chapter.

As always, I do not own Sam or Dean. And clearly, I spend way too much time in Michaels. :)

I'm going to need at least one more chapter to wrap everything up. The boys took longer in the craft store than I expected ...

* * *

Two men in their early thirties, dressed in flannel, worn jeans, and heavy work boots, were not the typical patrons of Michaels craft store. Several female heads swiveled in their direction as they made their entrance, Sam with his head bowed, Dean with a grin and a wave. A portly woman, wearing a red apron over a tight pantsuit that was at least thirty years out of style, accosted them before they'd even left the floral section.

"May I help you?" She tipped her head and batted her eyelashes at Dean.

Dean returned the smile. "My brother and I are just browsing." Sam's head lifted at his use of that word. _Since when has Dean "browsed" in any store?_ The man hated shopping, at least as far as Sam knew. What else didn't he know about his brother?

"If you need anything, sugar, just holler. My name's Edna."

Sam was relieved when Edna shuffled back to one of the front registers. Dean had grabbed a cart, and was now pushing it down an aisle filled with rocks and feathers and circles of woven wood. _Wreaths_ , his brain supplied. As he gawped at the offerings, Dean made a satisfied hum.

"Awesome!" His brother held up a miniature, battery-powered hot glue gun. "We need one of these!"

Sam raised an eyebrow but didn't say anything.

"What?" Dean looked affronted. "You can glue almost anything with these suckers. Which reminds me, we should get some superglue in the glue aisle."

Sam didn't know which was worse, that Michaels actually had an entire aisle devoted to glue, or that Dean knew the store well enough to know that. He couldn't hide the smirk.

"What?"

"Nothing."

Dean rolled his eyes, tossing the glue gun and a matching set of glue sticks into their cart. "You'll see, Sammy."

They threaded their way through baskets and frames, wound around through scrapbooking and stickers. Dean found the glue and spray paint aisle and added a tiny vial of superglue to their cart. Sam was amazed at the sheer quantity of craft materials in which he had absolutely no interest. _Cake decorating?_

Dean gazed at a display of brightly colored fondant, eyes slightly dilated. "Someday, Sammy," he said, voice wistful, "Someday we're gonna have ourselves a real kitchen."

Sam's heart clenched at his brother's tender admission. _What would Dean be like without the hunt?_ All of those hard edges that Sam thought of as Dean - how much of that was simply a reaction to their father, to their hunting lifestyle? He had a sudden pang of longing that he'd never know the Dean that Lisa had known. The vague memories he had of Lisa and Dean's home included painful reminders of what an asshole he'd been to his brother during the time he'd wandered around without a soul.

"Dean, I'm sorry."

His brother set aside a book on candy-making techniques and regarded him with a frown. "For what?" Dean resumed their trek through the store, bypassing the kids' section of modeling clay, crayons, and sheets of felt.

"I ..." Sam had no idea how to put his feelings into words. "I appreciate you bringing me here," he said, finally.

Dean squinted at him. "You haven't even looked at anything."

 _But I've seen you_ , Sam wanted to say. _I've seen a part of you that you rarely show anyone and I'm incredibly grateful that you've let me in after everything I've done._

"I'm sorry I made fun of you for playing golf," he blurted out.

His brother stopped pushing the cart and stared at him. "What?"

Sam bit his lip. "You've always been there for me, Dean. I'm sorry that I haven't always been there for you."

His brother glanced around. "This is what I get for taking you to a chick store." He sighed, folded his arms, and looked up at Sam, who was wearing a sorrowful expression. Dean tipped his head in the direction of two bystanders. The redhead was clearly listening in. "C'mon, bro. There's a section in the back you might like."

Dean was right. Sam gazed around at the pens, pencils, drafting supplies, and thick tablets of drawing paper with something approaching reverence. There was a section of books on drawing and painting techniques, and Sam picked one up, leafing through the pages with a smile.

Dean, however, was distracted. After the third book Sam had skimmed and returned to the shelf, he tracked his brother's line of sight. _Yarn. An entire wall of yarn._

He smiled at Dean. "I might be here awhile. Why don't you go ahead without me?"

His brother focused on him. "You don't mind? You might like knitting or crocheting if you gave it a try." Dean gave a rare shy smile.

"I think I've found what I came for," Sam said, holding up a book on pencil sketches. "Drawing's more portable than painting and I won't have to wait for everything to dry."

Edna popped up at that moment and Dean beat a hasty retreat toward fiber art, taking the shopping cart with him. "Did you have any questions, young man?"

Sam gave her a tentative smile. "Actually, I do," he admitted. "Can you recommend a set of drawing pencils for me?"

"Prismacolor is a good set to start with," she said, handing him a tin. "Assuming you want to work in color. And they're on sale this week." She chose a pad from the myriad similar choices displayed on the wall in front of them. "This will work well for regular pencils or ones like these." She handed Sam the pad and a tin of Faber-Castell watercolor pencils.

"Wow," Sam breathed. "I didn't even know they made pencils like this." He swallowed down the image of Jess smiling at him, and he couldn't help but wonder if she'd somehow pointed them out for the saleswoman. _I never mentioned that I like to paint, did I?_

"You'll want to get a paintbrush or two to go with that, along with a mixing tray." Sam followed the chubby woman as she sashayed her way into the next aisle. Finding the items, she added them to the growing stack of supplies he was carrying. Sam caught a glimpse of his brother in the back of the store, humming happily, holding up skein of black yarn and studying the fibers against the light. "Your friend, he's a knitter?"

"Crochet, actually," Sam replied.

Edna made a beeline for Dean. "He's going to love the new pattern books we just got in!" Sam followed, arms laden with drawing supplies, trying to overtake her before she could pounce on Dean.

They reached Dean at nearly the same time. The older hunter grinned as Sam dumped his spoils into their shopping cart, but his smile faded as Edna approached. Sam could almost hear his brother's inner walls locking into place.

"I hear you like to crochet." Edna touched Dean on the arm and led him toward the pattern books.

Dean plastered a fake smile on his face while glaring at Sam.

Edna picked up a thin book and handed it to Dean. "Thought you might like these new patterns. I'm starting another blanket and this is a far cry from granny squares."

To Sam's surprise, Dean narrowed his eyes in concentration, flipped a few pages, and studied the patterns. "You got any for scarves? I wanna make one with alternating colors."

Edna took the first book from Dean and handed him another one. "This one might work better."

Dean skimmed the pages and gave Edna an actual smile, not cocky, not forced. "Thanks." Sam realized with a start that Dean rarely graced anyone with a genuine smile any more. _Why didn't I notice before?_ He vowed to bring his brother back to the craft store. Maybe once a week, like getting gas or groceries.

Edna studied Dean. "It's almost closing time. You find the yarn you need?"

Dean held up a skein; Sam realized there were two others like it in the cart. "I found the black I wanted, but I need a bright yellow to go with it."

"Black and yellow?" Sam queried, at the same time his brain made the connection. "Oh! It's for Cas." At Edna's curious expression, Sam elaborated. "Our friend likes honeybees." Dean nodded solemnly, no doubt thinking of the precarious state of Castiel's mental health.

Edna led Dean to the bargain bin. "I know we have some in here. Ah! Here you go." She handed Dean a skein of yarn in canary yellow. "Let's see. Here's a second one."

Dean fingered the yarn and peered at the labels. "Lot numbers are the same. If you've got a third, we're in business." At Sam's unasked question, he responded, "Different dye lots produce slightly different colors. That's why you always gotta buy more yarn than you need. You don't wanna run out."

Edna gave Dean a sorrowful look. "We've just got the two." An announcement began to play, telling the customers it was closing time, thanking them for their patronage, and encouraging them to take their items to the front for purchase.

As Edna briskly bade them farewell, Dean thanked her, adding, "Two could work." He turned to Sam. "You ready?"

Sam lifted an eyebrow, and blew out a breath. "I guess so."

The brothers pushed their cart to the front, where Sam had another surprise waiting for him. Dean pulled out a $100 Michaels gift card, no doubt a gift from Lisa, to pay for their purchases. Sam had never noticed the card in Dean's wallet before, nor had Dean ever mentioned any prior interest in the craft store.

Of course Edna rang them up, and she used an array of coupons to ensure that their purchase fell just under $100. The brothers thanked her and hauled their loot to the car.

Once the bags were stowed in the trunk, Sam said, "Well, that was ... different." He ran his hands through his hair and tucked himself into the passenger seat of the Impala.

Dean sat in the driver's seat, holding the keys in his lap. The eyes he turned to his brother were bright and open, revealing more than a touch of sadness. "Thanks, Sammy." Then he cleared his throat and turned the key in the ignition. With a rumble, the Impala pulled out of the lot and Sam and Dean headed back to their motel.


	4. Chapter 4

Well, I thought that I could just wrap this little story up with one more chapter. Not so! A crocheting Dean is an unpredictable Dean. I'll need at least one more chapter.

My thanks to Samanthawolfe, Guest, Kathy, and ArtistKurai for your nice comments on the last chapter. My appreciation also to those who have taken the time to favorite or follow this story.

Not mine, don't own. Unbeta'ed. If I owned these boys, we'd see scenes like this every week. And there'd be a lot less blood and gore.

Cross-posted at Archive of Our Own.

* * *

Sam stretched out his long legs in the warm prairie grasses and inhaled the fresh air with a sigh. Puffy white clouds drifted lazily overhead and his mind floated along with them, fuzzy and relaxed, his thoughts bobbing in and out of order. The sketchbook slid from his lap and Sam barely managed to catch it before it crash-landed in a patch of dirt. Picking up the pad, he gently brushed away the pollen and dust that had collected there and studied his latest drawing.

The pencil sketch of Dean sitting on the Impala wasn't museum-worthy, but Sam thought he'd captured something of his brother's spirit. In the drawing, Dean wore faded jeans, boots, and an army jacket over a henley, with the sleeves bunched up around his elbows. He was studying the book in his lap with a pensive and thoughtful expression. Sam had chosen not to include the title - _Stitch 'N Bitch Crochet: The Happy Hooker_ \- or the crochet hook held like a knife in his brother's right hand. Gone also were the reading glasses that Dean refused to admit he needed but wore openly when he crocheted.

Sam felt fiercely protective of this side of his brother. Dean was constantly on-call for the world, expected to be brave, stoic, and powerful at a moment's notice. His willingness to include Sam in a relaxing ritual that left him so vulnerable and open was a gift, and Sam treasured their weekly crafting time together.

Dean had added another block of yellow to the scarf while Sam had been daydreaming. Originally, Sam had planned to include a chunky border on his drawing, to subtly incorporate the six (now seven) blocks of woven yellow and black that comprised Castiel's future Christmas present. Instead, he'd finally opted to honor the prairie at his feet with a line of wildflowers. Sam could almost pencil the blooms without feeling his eyes moisten, but the memories of Jess were still painfully close.

Wiping his eyes, Sam dug into his tackle box - a recent gift from Dean - and picked out a fresh pencil with a sharp tip. Dean had bought a similar box for his crochet supplies. To keep up the illusion that they were fishermen, Dean even added two cane poles to the Impala's trunk in case anyone bothered to look there. Sam thought he might buy his brother a proper fishing rod for Christmas - he knew Dean actually did like to fish. If their crazy past had taught Sam anything, it was that they needed to pace themselves, because life had a nasty habit of ganging up on the Winchesters.

Realizing he was chewing on the end of the pencil, Sam pulled it from his mouth and added a few bees to the scene. He wondered how Castiel was doing. Given that Dean was crocheting a scarf for the angel, Sam knew his brother must be thinking of their friend too. He set aside the pencil with a sigh.

With the sketch drafted, Sam reached for the tin of colored pencils next. He studied Dean's jacket closely before deciding to tint it green with just a touch of brown. Frowning, Sam grabbed the eraser. He was so intent on removing the errant stripe of brown that he didn't realize Dean was standing over him until his brother cleared his throat.

Sam glanced up and noted Dean's posture. His brother stood on the balls of his feet, knees slightly bent, arms folded protectively over his chest. His eyes flicked in all directions. The glasses were gone, although the crochet hook peeked out of the front left pocket of Dean's jacket.

Sam grabbed his pencils and eraser and shut them in the tackle box. "What's wrong?" he asked, jumping to his feet. He scanned the horizon. Nothing but miles of open fields, a few cows in the distance.

Dean shrugged, not taking his eyes off of their surroundings. "I feel like I'm being watched."

Light laughter bubbled from Sam. "Sorry about that," he said, a wry smile on his face. At Dean's narrowed gaze, he reached down for the drawing pad and handed it to his brother. "You _were_ being watched."

As recognition dawned on Dean, Sam watched the tension slide from his brother's shoulders. "That's not bad," Dean said, gazing at the pencil version of himself with a touch of pride. "Your proportions are getting better." He looked up at Sam. "But I do not have that many wrinkles around my eyes. Jeez." Rubbing at his crow's feet, Dean handed the notebook back.

Sam raised his eyebrows. "You'd rather I drew you in reading glasses? Because I can add those in, you know -"

"Bitch." Dean cut him off. "I told you, they're just for crocheting." The older man stalked away from Sam and headed back toward the Impala.

Sam sighed. "Jerk," he muttered. The state of Dean's eyes was an argument best left for a different time. The man could be unbelievably stubborn about things like that. He picked up his craft box and followed Dean at a more sedate pace. When he reached the Impala, Dean was stuffing skeins of yarn into a larger version of Sam's tackle box. "We leaving?"

Dean shrugged and opened the trunk, adding his large box. The distinctive long coil of scarf was tucked into his old blue flannel craft bag. Sam wondered if Dean had completed the blue-green scarf his brother had been making for him. Dean never worked on that one around him.

He caught up to his brother in two long strides and set his craft box alongside his brother's, tucking the notebook beside it. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

Sam's face puckered and wrinkled as he twitched his way through the apology. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

Dean gave a snort of derision. "It's almost two in the afternoon. I'm hungry." He opened the driver's side door but stopped just short of getting in.

Sam looked at him across the roof of the Impala. "Why don't we grab some lunch and have a picnic somewhere?" Dean's gaze flicked over to Sam, and Sam could sense the uncertainty there. He held up his hands. "I promise not to draw you again."

Sighing, Sam added, "I didn't mean to make you feel self-conscious, Dean." He gestured at the empty countryside surrounding them. "Because I need this. You. Me. Just ... being together. I can't watch you risk your life 24/7. It's wearing me down."

Sam opened the passenger side door but the sound of Dean clearing his throat stopped him from folding his long body into the car. He studied his brother. "You okay?"

Dean had wrapped his arms around his middle again. When he spoke, his voice was so faint that Sam almost didn't catch the words. "I miss Lisa." There was an uncharacteristic sniff from his brother before Dean ducked into the Impala and slammed the door with more force than necessary. He'd be apologizing to the car later.

Sam closed his eyes, counted to ten, and inhaled a deep breath. _I miss Jess, too_ , he thought, but he didn't say so to Dean. He knew his brother had expended a day's worth of "girlie talk" with that one sentence.

He bent down into the car. "How 'bout Mexican? I'd like something more than a salad for lunch today." Sitting down beside Dean, Sam stared resolutely out the dashboard, not daring to look at his brother for fear that Dean would hastily erect a new emotional wall.

His brother nodded as he brought the car to life. "Sounds like a plan." He pinched the bridge of his nose and handed the map to Sam. "I'm going to head into town. We can eat there. Find us someplace to stop for the night."

Sam fought down his desire to ask Dean if he was okay again. The older hunter was clearly fighting off a headache, but whether that was due to stress from discussing Lisa, illness, or allergies to the surrounding grasses, Sam had no idea. Maybe Dean needed a drink.

"Okay," he said, carefully. Navigating the minefield of an emotional Dean with a headache wasn't going to be fun. If he suggested they stop for the night nearby, Dean was sure to get testy, maybe even drive further just to prove he could.

Sam chewed his lip. "Why don't we wait until after lunch to decide where to go? We can pick up some papers and look for a new hunt."

They didn't need a new hunt; chasing Dick Roman was an all-encompassing obsession. But Dean surprised Sam by nodding slightly. "Okay."

 _Damn. He's feeling worse than I thought._

Dean pulled into the gravel parking lot of the first eatery they passed, a tavern that reminded Sam of the Roadhouse if it had been properly maintained. It wouldn't have been Sam's first choice for lunch if he'd had a headache. Too much noise, too much smoke. Dean might have been contemplating the same thing because he didn't get out of the car, just sat there staring at his hands in his lap.

Sam had a frantic moment of wishing Dean would just snap out of it and adopt his usual macho bullshit. Saying he wanted Dean to share his feelings and knowing how to handle it when he did were two entirely different things. Fragile Dean rarely made an appearance in Sam's life. But if he wanted his brother to open up to him, Sam knew he needed to step up.

"Hey, Dean." He placed a hand on his brother's right shoulder. "I'm going to get us some takeout. What do you want?"

Dean stared at his hands. "Burger and fries, I guess." He cleared his throat again. "Couple of beers."

"And pie?" Sam suggested, lowering his hand.

The eyes Dean turned to him were red-rimmed and watery. He nodded. And Sam fought against every instinct he had not to hug his big brother right there in the parking lot.


	5. Chapter 5

Well, I'm both excited and a little sad to be wrapping this one up. Thanks to everyone who's been following along. I appreciate the comments on the last chapter from SpnKsl5, kathy, ArtistKurai, Guest, and LadyWallace.

A special thanks to ArtistKurai, for encouraging me to expand this story in the first place. I had no idea Sam and Dean had an actual story to tell! Big hugs also to Fanpire101 for beta'ing this chapter for me. Any remaining errors are mine.

I own nothing here except for Dean's crochet hook and Sam's drawing pencils.

Cross-posted at _Archive of Our Own_.

* * *

Sam returned to the car with three newspapers, a sack of greasy food, two sodas, and a six-pack of local beer. He found Dean asleep in the Impala, slumped toward the door, his face pinched and pale. Sam frowned at his brother's posture before rapping gently on the driver's side window with his elbow.

Dean started, his head flipping frantically back and forth, before he winced and rubbed the base of his neck. As his brother peered up at him through half-lidded eyes, Sam saw pain lurking in those murky green depths. And he knew exactly when Dean caught that his baby brother was studying him, because the mask of bravado slipped back into place with a near-audible click.

Rolling down the window, Dean took the food and drink into the Impala as if Sam was a carhop, eying the microbrew appreciatively. "Nice work, there, Sam." His brother gave him a lazy smile and tucked a nickel into his hand. "Here's your tip. Bras usually unhook in the back." At Sam's bitch face, he added, "Oh wait, Samantha, you already knew that, didn't you?" Dean chuckled.

Sam tamped down hard on his irritation and studied his brother. The previous vulnerability that Sam had witnessed had already been squirreled away. It was hard to believe that this was the same man who, less than two hours ago, admitted that his missed his last girlfriend, the one woman that Dean Winchester never, ever talks about.

Such a drastic mood shift could only mean one thing. His window of opportunity for peering into his brother's psyche was over.

Sam sighed and rubbed his eyes. Not for the first time, he wished his brother hadn't perfected John Winchester's art of acting like a complete asshole when you felt cornered and weak.

Given Dean's pallor, clenched jaw, and slightly squinted eyes, Sam knew that his brother's headache had grown worse and that the man probably shouldn't be driving. But there was no point in trying to talk or reason with Dean right now. Sam sighed again, loped around the Impala, and opened the passenger side door. He fished around in the glove box and handed his brother a battered pair of sunglasses before sitting down.

Dean donned the shades without comment and pulled back onto the main drag of the small town. "Where to, Sammy?"

Sam hid a shy smile, one dimple poking in. Dean clearly appreciated both the sunglasses and that Sam hadn't pushed him to talk. Unless his big brother was intentionally baiting him, the diminutive form of his name only tended to slip out when Dean was feeling particularly close. Soulless Sam, he knew, hadn't been called Sammy.

"Maybe head over to Route 66 for awhile?" Sam suggested. "I'll skim the papers while you drive and see if I can find us something." He made a mental note to ignore anything to the west - the last thing Dean needed was to drive into the blinding rays of the setting sun.

* * *

Dean lasted less than an hour. Almost as soon as he put the car in gear, he was squinting against the reflection of the sunset in his rearview mirror, scowling at the blacktop. Sam held his tongue for the first thirty minutes, but finally took pity on his big brother.

"Dean, I think we should stop soon." Before the older man could jump in and argue that he was fine, Sam added, "I'm tired. I didn't sleep very well last night." He held his breath, hoping his brother would let the lie slide.

After a stretch of silence, Dean nodded, even that gesture causing him a slight wince. "Okay, Sammy."

 _No argument from Dean is a bad sign_ , Sam thought. _I need to get him off the road now._

He flicked open the glove box and pulled out a map, spreading it open over his knee with a practiced hand. "How about Lakeford? It's about 20 miles down the road and looks big enough to have a diner and a laundromat."

Dean grunted, which was as much of an answer as Sam supposed he was going to get. So, he was caught unaware when the Impala lurched dangerously to the right, nearly running off the road. His brother rapidly decelerated onto the gravel shoulder. Dean threw the car in park and panted heavily in the driver's seat, looking pale and spent.

"What the hell, dude?"

His brother flinched at the volume of Sam's voice and scrubbed beneath the sunglasses to rub his temples. Sam could hear him swallowing hard, no doubt trying to keep the nausea at bay. This wasn't just a headache then, it was a migraine.

"You need me to drive?" Sam whispered the words and held his breath. Directly asking his brother to admit weakness scarcely went well. An admission of need was a serious breach in the Winchester code of conduct.

The nod was barely perceptible, speaking volumes to how badly his brother was feeling right now. Dean exited the car and walked gingerly around the trunk to enter the passenger's seat that Sam had vacated.

Sam stood before the open trunk, rummaging around in the med kit, mentally cataloging the medications they had in stock and weighing their likely efficacy. Fioricet wasn't Dean's favorite - it made him a bit emotional - but it worked better than Advil and had less side effects than some of the stronger pain meds.

He brought Dean two capsules and a bottle of water. "Here," he said, placing the items in his brother's lap before taking his place behind the wheel. Sam watched to make sure Dean actually took the medicine, thankful that he'd already plotted their course and knew there was a motel nearby.

* * *

Sam woke to the distinct sound of metal striking stone. He bolted out of bed, gun in hand, squinting in the dim light, before his sleep-addled brain registered that the noise had originated from his brother.

"Dude! What the hell?" Sam asked, clicking the safety back on before setting his gun on the nightstand. "It's the middle of the night!"

Dean looked up from the small dining table, clad only in sweats and threadbare Metallica T-shirt, his knife in one hand and a whetstone in the other. Even in the near-dark, Sam could tell that Dean's eyes were puffy, his face pale. His brother sniffed.

Sam quirked his giant forehead, worried wrinkles multiplying as he did so. "Dean?"

The older man didn't reply. Methodically, Dean continued to sharpen the knife with a practiced hand.

Sam ran his fingers through his unruly hair as he shuffled across the room in his socks. At close range, Sam could see Dean's red eyes and a telltale tear track down one flushed cheek. _Why is he even awake_ , Sam wondered. He placed a gentle hand on his brother's shoulder. "You okay?"

Dean cleared his throat and spoke to the table, his voice gruff. "I can't go crafting with you."

"What? Why?" Sam flipped the adjacent chair around and dropped into it, long limbs sprawled everywhere.

"First of all, I'm not a girl, Sam." Dean held the hunting knife at arm's length and turned on the nearest lamp. Squinting one eye, he examined the edge of the blade and nodded. "And second, crocheting? Drawing?" he scoffed, shaking his head and setting the knife down on the table. "It was stupid."

Sam folded his arms, feeling cold in his _Eat organic!_ tee and gym shorts. "I don't think it's stupid. I like drawing, Dean." His voice dropped. "I like doing something normal together, something apart from hunting."

"And that's the problem, Sam. We're hunters. We don't do normal." At Sam's affronted expression, he acquiesced. "Fine. Just don't do it around me." The older hunter stood and walked stiffly across the room toward his duffle. Pulling out the Jack Daniels, he was just about to take a swig when Sam leapt across the lumpy twin beds and tore the bottle from his grip.

"Dean! What're you doing? You can't mix liquor with your headache meds!" Slamming the bottle down, he fumed at his brother. "Are you crazy?"

Dean shrugged. "Whatever." He picked up his keys and strode toward the door. "I'm goin' out."

Sam raced to face Dean and gripped his brother's shoulders in two gigantic hands. "No, you're not." He could feel the older man tremble beneath his long fingers. "Dean, talk to me."

His brother closed his eyes and shook his head. "Don't do this, Sammy."

Sam released Dean from his hold but stood directly in front of him. "I'm not letting you go out, Dean. You've still got a migraine." His brother scowled at him, but didn't argue. "And you're too upset to be driving. It's not safe."

Sam thought his impassioned plea had made a difference, right until the older man clocked him in the jaw. As Sam staggered to the floor, scraping one knee against the filthy carpet, Dean rubbed his raw knuckles. "I warned you." He pushed past Sam, but the younger man clamped onto his brother's ankle and yanked him down. Soon, both brothers were rolling around the floor, fists and feet flying.

Sam finally managed to pin Dean in a headlock. "You stupid jerk! What in the hell do you think you're doing?"

His brother thrashed around. "Lemme go, Sam!"

Sam tightened his hold. "No. Not until you tell me why you're so upset."

"Bitch. You fight like a girl," Dean sneered, bucking against his brother.

Sam grew very still. "I wasn't the one crying tonight, Dean." He felt his brother make a Herculean attempt to break away but Sam clung tight. A shudder rippled through the older man before he finally stilled. "Please tell me what's wrong," Sam pleaded.

His brother's shoulders drooped as he curled around himself protectively. "I already told you," he whispered.

Sam relaxed his hold, but kept his arms around his brother. "You miss Lisa?"

There was another sniff, and Dean nodded. Sam felt a warm tear hit his arm, followed by a few more. Dean swallowed, scrubbing at his eyes, his voice raw. "I miss her so much, Sam." His voice broke. As Sam squeezed his brother, Dean added, "And that's why I can't craft any more." Dean tore away and stood up, wrapping his arms around himself. "It's makin' me soft."

The younger hunter stared at his brother from the floor with a mixture of love and pity. "Dean, you don't really believe that, do you?"

Dean threw his arms wide. "Look at me, Sam!" He swiped angrily at the tears that were still falling. "Do I look like a Winchester right now? Would Dad be proud to see this? To see his pansy-assed sons taking up arts and crafts like a couple of girls?"

Sam shook his head. "Dean, I don't care what Dad would think."

His brother snorted. "Of course you don't."

"That's not what I meant and you know it." Sam stood and walked over to his brother, locking onto the older man's shifting gaze and forcing it to still. "I love you, Dean." He reached out and touched his brother. "Do you know how happy it makes me to say that and really feel it?" Sam threw every ounce of love he had for his brother into his gaze. "Dean, you saw me without a soul, without any emotional weakness. Are you sure you want to live like that?" Sam swallowed hard. "Because I don't want that. I don't ever want to live with Soulless Dean. I want you to feel things. Happy, sad, all of it. I want my big brother back, with all of his strengths and all of his weaknesses." Sam found that his eyes were unexpectedly moist. He glommed onto Dean and gave him a massive Sammy snuggle.

Dean gave his brother a moment before he pulled away and wiped one eye. "Guess you've been saving up for this chick flick moment all year, huh?"

Sam grinned, both dimples making an appearance. "I missed you, Dean."

Dean nodded and cleared his throat. "I missed you, too, Sammy."

Sam, smiling through his tears, watched as his brother consciously lowered the mental walls that separated them, barriers the man had erected out of necessity during the long months of living with a soul-free brother. He'd kept them up while Sam had suffered through the worst of his hallucinations of Lucifer.

Dean's imploring gaze hit Sam so hard that he inhaled sharply and consciously had to stop himself from clutching his brother again.

"Sam, I'm afraid if I let myself feel, I'm gonna break into a million pieces," Dean choked out in a near-whisper.

Sam ventured a tentative hand in his big brother's direction. "I promise you, Dean, I'll put you back together if that happens." His intense hazel eyes met Dean's vulnerable green ones. "You need to feel, Dean. It's part of being human."

"I don't have to like it," Dean grumbled. He took a deep breath. "All right. How about this? I'll craft weekly for you, Samantha, you giant girl, as long as we don't have to have any more chick flick moments." He turned away to wipe his eyes.

"I'm proud of you." Sam's smile warmed the room like the sun.

"For what? Cryin' like a girl?" Dean growled.

"For letting me in." Sam opened his arms wide and Dean stared back at him. For a long, tense moment, Sam worried that his brother had shut him back out, but then Dean clenched his jaw, swallowed hard, and walked into Sam's waiting arms.

"I'm here, Dean," Sam whispered, wrapping his long arms around the trembling man. He rested his chin on top of his brother's spiky hair. "I'm here and I'm not going anywhere."


End file.
